Only a Butler
by jane.doe.deer
Summary: Damian deals with a uncertainty after the death of Batman, and Alfred must once again, look after a boy who's lost his father.


Damian's punches grew furious. As he beat the punching bag beyond submission, the battered sack fell open, split at the stomach by a final, withering blow. His frustration competed with his anger as he turned his hand to the strike-dummy. He could never be the doting and grief ridden son. He'd seen a documentary once about one of the American presidents, and recalled the way his tiny child had saluted in a moment of assumed dignity as his father's casket passed. He struck pointedly at the eyes and nose as he recalled the purity of it. He could never truly love either of his parents in that way.

Never fully allowed to be a child, Damian had only the grief of a bitter man. Dick was a far better son even if he was some lowly circus changeling brought in out of pity. There was no place for Damian at the table already filled by nobler sons. There was no place for love, or sadness, and there was no place for error, the thought as he struck the sternum of the dummy, pushing it backwards. There was only a place for...

"Master Damian, you must sit and eat your dinner, or you will lose your training privileges"

Damian did his best to look passive with a touch of antagonistic, as he strode to the seat across from Alfred. As he sat down to dinner, he had to catch himself to keep from smiling: there was still room at the servants' table.

Alfred took a rare opportunity where Damian was unable to speak in that snide way of his, or pretend to be unable to hear above his boredom, to share with the boy his thoughts:

"Did you know that today is my birthday? No I expect not, you aren't at all interested in such trivial things as _other people_ are you? Nevertheless, it is my birthday, and so you will sit and eat and I will tell you my birthday wish. You can speak when I am finished, but until then, respect your elders. "

Damian attempted to begin what would no doubt be a stingingly pointed remark about his age, before the slight raise of Alfred's eyebrow conveyed that better judgement was in order.

"When Bruce was as young as you are now, he was much the same as you: he was furious with the world, and would not give in to such silly things as tears, or even tantrums. He was so quiet for months after it happened that I had to keep checking that he was still there when I looked away. He was so determined not to give in to anything that he wouldn't let me do anything to help him. I tried, once, and asked what his favourite food was, hoping he might start eating with the fervour of other young boys: he looked at me as though I had asked if I should serve a slice of dust for desert.

But the difference, you see, between young Bruce and you, is that you can quite clearly see what the end of the road looks like. Your father is gone, and you are his only legacy: Batman's victories will never rest with Bruce. He gave up all of his talents and his love to a fictional night-stalker that he used to get back at the world. Bruce never got the chance to be a real father, and he gave up on being the son his father would have wanted. No parent wants to see their son do what Batman does. I hate the Batman for what he has taken from your father, and from me.

I am an old man, far too old to be waiting up and worrying, knowing that one day the evening news is going to know about your deaths before I do, or that you'll simply never come home. Bruce was the one who had to heal from a broken back, and Bruce was the one who had to recover after every stabbing, shooting, near-drowning and beating, but I was the one who had to patch him up each time, sending him straight back out into the bloodied melee. There is no end to this path, sir, good or otherwise. There is no day when this city, or this damn world will be clean, and there's not a damn thing I can do to stop child after child, from diving headlong into the filth and the crime, and I hate it.

I am telling you about your father's world, just as I used to tell Bruce about his father. I have but one wish, Master Damian, and that is that you are the last young man I have to care for who stares back at me with such anger for this world.

Now finish your vegetables and bring your dishes to the sink when you're through."


End file.
